Ernst Wasa Bräuer, Dr. Philosophy and Physics, was my Father. He was born on the 24th day of May, 1889 in Breslau. He resided for a time in Berlin but he was lured back to his mountains in Selesia, where he built a home for his family.

After 50 years I returned to our homestead and your place of rest. I remembered the mountains, rivers and the woods around our house, the Haardthof. Little remains of the place in which I grew up. The forest has over grown everything. There were still remnants of the little stone wall in front of our houses, where cushions of fragrant violets filled the air under the Linden tree. I could touch them. My memories of my childhood, though seemingly from another century sprang alive in the splashing of the little mountain brook we called “Flössel”. The orchard, once overflowing with blossoms, now lay stark in the sun with black broken branches reaching out as empty silhouettes. The ferns you planted in stone coves near the little pond quitely stood as if in waiting. The weeping birches along the field-path, once standing proud now looked grotesque. We often passed by there on our way to school to catch the train in Reibnitz, on our way to Hirschberg.

My heart started to weep as we approached the village from Bad Warmbrunn. The winding road, lined with the birches you planted, was as if you held out your hand to me. I remember the last time I spoke with you, in a horse drawn sled on a crystal clear Sunday in 1945. I leaned back and looked at the deep blue sky as the hoar-frost slowly fell in prismic bursts of color. The chimes on the harness rang rythmic into the glittering sunshine mixing with the hushed trot of the horse. I did not know then that this would be one of the last living memories with you.

When I returned after the flight from the Russian front a year later, it was a day after your burial. I did not have the chance to say goodbye to you. With my sisters Veronica and Kathrine, I stayed for another year. We tried to keep your dream alive, but we were evacuated in May 1947.

When I returned in 1993, there was little physical evidence that this had ever been our home. Only one building was still standing, it was occupied by a young Polish family who had not been born at the time of the occupation.

But your dream was still there. Your spirit spoke through each memory. Your dream has affected my life in ways I had not known. You have given me so much, I love you Dad and I miss you.